


Gizka Are Good

by Haospart



Category: Star Wars Legends: Knights of the Old Republic (Video Games)
Genre: Crying, Dissociation, Feelings of being not real, Gizka - Freeform, Identity Issues, Mental Breakdown, Revan reveal fucked up my poor dumb boy, Vivid description of Identity Crisis from his point of view, Whump, dissociation maybe?, feelings of betrayal, gizka are emotional support animals now, he's not handling it well, identity crisis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:33:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25103221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haospart/pseuds/Haospart
Summary: Wila, or whoever he really is, handles the revelation that HE was Revan, uh, BADLY.But there's the gizka, and they don't care about that.AKA my poor little -int and -wis Pure of Heart Dumb of Ass Revan, Wila, has a whole 'holy shit' session about Being Revan and the belief that he, as WILA, isn't a real person.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 18





	Gizka Are Good

**Author's Note:**

> Dude has a full on 'am I really real' experience bc Hot Shit he's *not* doing well after finding out that he's Revan so uh, this is basically a whole fic of his brain going a million miles an hour and downward spiral-ing in his own head. Be warned.

It’s the same feeling of falling, the kind that grips and pulls terror into your heart while you’re falling asleep, that makes you jolt awake in a panic for the briefest moment before you realize that you’re in your bed and not  _ really _ falling. Except it doesn’t end. Every moment full of anticipation for the jolt, the panic of waking up too hard and fast, the relief and irritation at being awoken so rudely by your own body for absolutely nothing. It doesn’t come. There is no  _ relief _ when the galaxy is falling apart. Just the falling, endlessly, with feet on solid ground.

Wila, no,  _ Revan _ , he reminded himself, half-stood in the storage room, where Sasha used to be. She’d gone off sometime, somewhere, and it left the room empty of all life, but for the gizka. He leaned back against the wall, furthest from the door and behind a few storage containers.

Slowly, he sunk to the floor, back pressed into the wall painfully to keep himself from simply slamming into the metal flooring. A gizka hopped up, tilted its head curiously and positioned itself in his lap.

He huffed a humorless laugh, “Perfect timing. At least you don’t need anyone to break it to you. You guys don’t care, huh? ‘Revan’ means nothing to you,” he brought his hands up to rub and scratch behind the small animal’s head-nubs. It cooed and chirped as he worried away at the desired spots on the gizka’s head.

Sitting didn’t help the feeling any, the endless suspension in the air. More of him was in contact with the ground but nothing felt like it.

“It isn’t the reality for you, the truth behind everything,” his throat clenched and his breath hitched, quiet and harsh, “ _ You _ don’t care if I’m not real. You don’t care that I’m not a real person. You just care if I have enough hands to do  _ this _ with you.”

It purred in his lap, nestled in closer for maximum surface area available for love.

What Mission said twisted in his head, she’d said that it didn’t matter if he had been Revan, that  _ this _ was the real person, that he was just  _ him _ . But he wasn’t, really. It was her vote of confidence, her retort to Carth’s 180 and turning on him. But she was  _ wrong _ .

This,  _ Wila _ , wasn’t the real him.  _ Wila _ wasn’t a  _ person _ , he was a construct. His personality, his past, his everything were built to replace the  _ real _ person.  _ Wila _ was a manufactured personality. Bright eyes, good intentions, and missing huge swathes of the intelligence that he’d been led to believe made Revan remarkable.

Was that a conscious choice? Something else the Jedi had programmed in to keep Revan at bay?

He curled forwards, over the gizka, and shuddered. Tears, hot and fresh, trickled out. Some fell over the Gizka, who only buried its face further into his torso to escape the sudden rain. Some of it fell onto the cloth of his shirt. He’d taken off the Jedi’s robes as soon as he could, once Carth had stopped jumping down his throat about Revan and his crew had dispersed. He couldn’t bear to wear it after that.

Wila rubbed the gizka’s nubs with his thumbs, pulling himself into the texture and the warmth of another life. His existence might be a lie, a preprogrammed construct to use the broken mind of a Sith, but the gizka was real. The warmth of a small animal was real, and it lived and breathed in his hands.

He’d been  _ used _ . Bastila had been pulling the strings in his head since before he’d met her. No. Since before  _ Wila _ met her. Whatever that meant anymore. He’d been used, Bastila had  _ admitted it _ , and then, with Wila still reeling, she’d sacrificed herself. He was  _ angry _ with her,  _ horrified _ that she’d been lying to him, and before he could process it, work it out with her, she  _ gives herself to Malak _ .

He was  _ still _ angry with her. She’d used him, been part of the process that  _ built Wila _ , and then had the audacity to try to admit and negate feelings for a  _ construct _ .

_ That _ churned his gut more than he’d like to admit. She  _ knew _ he wasn’t real, more than anyone else could have dreamed, and she’d made that move anyways. For a moment he felt the barest slivers of relief that he’d shut her down when she’d brought it up.  _ Who falls for the puppet? _

He shook the thought from his head. Her and her antics, followed by a ‘ _ heroic sacrifice _ ’ just made him angry. Sacrifice was a coward’s way out of a necessary conversation, the emotional turmoil that would follow, and the difficult reparations that would follow. He understood that she’d saved himself and Carth with it, but that didn’t make him  _ happy _ . Left him with no answers or closure, and the sudden hostility of someone he’d thought of as a  _ real friend _ .

Although, he supposed, he probably couldn’t have  _ real _ friendships. Real friends were for real people, and  _ Wila _ as he was just  _ wasn’t _ . Some of his crew were determined to see him as simply  _ him _ . But everything about him had been invented and designed by the Jedi.

He’d been a model of Jedi behavior, a perfect peacekeeper and compassionate force. He’d been that way until-

_ Until. _

There was a qualifier, he’d cracked his perfect Jedi behavior. On Tattooine, first. He’d taken HK-47’s advice to do some ‘aggressive bargaining’, and without questioning it for a  _ moment _ he’d threatened the shopkeeper’s life. Bastila and Carth both had reacted violently, with loud alarm and horror, reining him in.

He’d been perfectly reasonable afterwards. Again until.

Bastila hadn’t seen his second cracking, she’d been ship-bound. Korriban. Where he’d killed those who had helped him, where he’d embraced his ‘role’ as a student of the Sith Academy with enough energy to fool the Sith there.

He’d cleared the way for the renegade students, but beyond that he’d bent under the pressure to fit in the environment. Lashowe had taken less than a moment’s effort to murder, after her refusal to let him come with her to present the Holocron. Mekel had helped him survive initially in the tomb of Tulak Hord, but after Wila murdered both the Sith leaders in the tomb of Naga Sadow, he too had fallen victim. The entire academy had fallen the same, a poisoned blade stolen from the tomb and a deep violet lightsaber through the masses.

He’d stalked the halls,  _ looking _ for trouble. He’d cracked.

And now, to learn, maybe it wasn’t simply the need to blend in, maybe it hadn’t been Korriban itself pulling him down the road.

Maybe it had been the Truth. So close to the real person, that the fake gave way, however briefly. The construction couldn’t last through the strain that was asked of it, maybe. Revan had done as Revan does. Or did. He’d done the familiar under the pressure of the twisting Horrible that flowed through Korriban. Only reality survives under such circumstances.

The gizka cooed again, wiggled around for a moment, his hands having frozen in place. His mind wandered again to somewhere distant.

He let out a breath, resumed the rhythmic, soothing motions on the gizka’s hide. He closed his eyes and leaned back again, head thunking against the wall.

After all, Wila wasn’t real. Not in the way that they thought he should be. But a gizka didn’t care if he was real or not. Doesn’t care if he’s always falling through himself. Just that he kept petting it.


End file.
